Ashes of a flame
by A-gear-in-the-works
Summary: Even in such a dark and desolate place, one may find comfort in simple things. (I don't own Dark Souls 3 or any other parts of the series)
1. One dance

Firelink Shrine was by no means a noisy place, nor was it ever truly quiet.

The sound of Andre's hammer pounding steel against the anvil could always be heard, the steady rhythm like that of a metronome.

The fire would always crackle, the flames attempting to lick away at the coiled sword, the blade always enduring.

Faint hissing of steel running on steel as Sirris sharpened her blades.

The faint murmurings came from the further down, of the pyromancer and sorcerer, of the one similar to her and her guardian, of the ones plotting in their dark abode, of the one who had been abandoned muttering to herself.

She knew these noises, for they represented the things that she could not see, yet still knew were there.

The fire keeper sat against the stairs, head turned towards the thrones of cinder. Being blind, it mattered little where her head was pointed, only that she knew the sounds around her.

And while sitting there, she heard a noise. It was faint at first, so distant that she couldn't tell quite what it was.

A whistle. It was barely loud enough for her to make out, but it seemed to be approaching closer and closer. The fire keeper turned her head, focusing in on the source of the noise.

It was clearer now, a rising and falling in pitch. The sound echoed throughout the shrine, reaching all who resided there.

Cornyx and Orbeck stopped their discussion on how pyromancy and sorceries intertwined, admiring the sound. The pair nodded in agreement and made for the sound.

Patches and Greirat ceased their haggling of prices, rising from their crouch to lean down and see what the noise was.

Yuria and Yoel paused in their plotting to find a new hollow lord, entrapped in the melody. The pair couldn't help but find themselves peeking around the corner at the gathering.

Karla's tears stopped flowing as she wiped them away and started making her way towards the whistling.

Eygon lifted Irina up, taking the blind miracle worker towards the bonfire. She leaned against her protector, entrapped in the song.

The shrine maiden grinned, raising her head and waiting for the music to come closer.

Andre's hammering stopped. For the first time in who knows how long, the blacksmith left his workshop. Old bones creaking, he lowered himself onto the stairs, joining the other occupants of the shrine.

All were gathered around, scattered around the bonfire to watch the unkindled. He was adorned in the armour of cinder, but the grace he moved with made it seem as though he was not encumbered at all. He seemed to glide as he moved down the steps.

The fire keeper stood entrapped, her head slightly swaying to tune. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard.

Gentle fingers pulled at her hands. The fire keeper allowed herself to be pulled forward, knowing that it could only be the unkindled, only his hands' were so soft.

The others watched as the fire keeper and unkindled danced around the room, the warrior leading his blind partner in a gentle and slow waltz, whistling all the while.

It started with Andre, the old blacksmith picked up on the melody first. His deeper and hoarser voice added another layer to the song. The shrine handmaiden joined him shortly after, a shrill whistle, yet still in time with the others.

It didn't take long for the entire room to be filled with noise, hums and whistles and even the occasional clang of metal on metal. Those who were normally considered enemies joined together to enjoy this moment of peace, a short respite in the turmoil of their lives.

And all the while, the duo danced. Twirling around one another, they allowed the music to guide them. The tune had slowly dwindled down, until it was only them humming along to it.

In that moment, nothing mattered. The feuds of the past meant nothing, the lords of cinder could wait, and the looming uncertainty of the future could be forgotten. All that mattered to them was enjoying this moment.

As the unkindled hummed the last note, he bowed to his partner, and she replied in kind. It was to them, perfect.


	2. A fight to the death

Blood trickled down the unkindled's arm, causing red ripples in the water beneath them.

With a grunt, the warrior clad in steel drew his arm back, longsword gripped tightly.

"Horace!" he shouted through his helmet, "I don't want to do this anymore than you do."

His words fell on deaf ears as Horace the Hushed drew his halberd back once more, the fresh blood flying off the tip as the edge rushed to meet flesh once more.

The unkindled dodged, a small sidestep followed by a sprint to mauver around the unwieldy weapon. With a shout, he brought his long sword down, only to be halted by Horace's shield.

The pair ground to a halt, steel against steel. Neither fighter budged an inch.

"I know you're still in there, Horace!" The unkindled cried out, pushing the longsword further down, "I know that you can still fight it! Anri is waiting for us, and she needs you to guide her!"

Horace grunted, throwing his full weight behind the shield to push the unkindled back. He jabbed furiously with his halberd, only lightly grazing his opponent. The unkindled drew back, dropping himself into a lower stance, only to charge and thrust his longsword forward.

The blade connected with shield, tearing the straps off and sending the metal flying into one of the cavern corners. Undeterred, Horace gripped his halberd in both hands, lunging forward.

Metal met once more as the unkindled roared, swinging the blade with all of his strength, knocking the halberd from the executioner's hands.

"It doesn't have to be this way Horace," the unkindled begged, trying to reason with Horace, "Please, just come back to us."

Horace bellowed, launching himself at the unkindled with his gauntlets raised. His rush was met with steel as the unkindled lunged, his blade piercing through the gap between the helmet and torso, cutting clean through the warrior's neck.

The unkindled held tightly onto the blade as Horace attempted to swing at him, barely able to move. He did not give up quickly, continuing to throw punches that grew sloppier and sloppier. Eventually, the swings were barely even attempts, and Horace stopped moving altogether.

Silence hung in the air, only broken by the drops of blood plummeting into the water below and the pair's heavy breaths.

Then, one footstep, and another. Slowly but surely, Horace approached the unkindled, who still gripped tightly onto the sword in case of another attack.

With his last choking breath, Horace fell forward onto the unkindled, arms wrapping around him in a hug.

More than just blood fell into the Smouldering Lake, as the unkindled shed tears he had thought had dried up long ago.

He slowly lowered his brethren down, removing his longsword and cleaning it in the bloody water. Sheathing his weapon, the unkindled lifted Horace, carrying the corpse over to the only dry corner he could see in the cavern.

With gentle care, he laid the still body down on the dry stone. The unkindled swiftly picked up the other rotten corpse on the stone, giving a quick apology to the dead skin as he tossed it into the water.

The unkindled quickly gathered Horace's gear, laying the halberd on his left and the shield on his right.

Looking over the corpse, the unkindled knew there was only one more rite to add to the funeral. Pulling out his soapstone, he knelt down, writing a quick inscription at Horace's feet.

 _Here lies Horace the Hushed, a great friend and brave warrior.  
May his soul find peace in death._

With a heavy heart, the unkindled turned and made for the cavern exit. He looked back at the body, bowing his head in respect.

"So long, Horace." He whispered, turning back ahead, "By Nehma, what am I going to tell Anri?" 

* * *

**A/N So, I've decided to create a series out of this. Knowing how my brain works, it's going to be inconsistent in uploads, and I might forget about it for a while, but that's the benefit of doing short stories. These won't be in any chronological order, though you are welcome to make assumptions based on what is described, it's just that I don't really have a plan for these, I'm just writing these as they come.**

 **Thank you for all the reviews, favourites, and follows. I hope you will all enjoy the stories to come.**

 **Bearer. Seek. Seek. Lest.  
**


	3. Battle scars

At first glance, the unkindled looked fine for someone in a world without flame.

He was of a tall stature, with a dancers grace in even the heaviest of armours, strong enough to wield the gigantic weapons that his enemies once used. To any who looked at him, he seemed an inspiration, a beacon of hope.

It wasn't until his armour was removed that the pain he had suffered would reveal itself.

Each time he would die, a new scar would make itself known on his body, each a painful reminder with a story behind it.

His body was absolutely littered in them.

There were many on his chests, spots where he had been run through by a sword, a spear, or even the occasional arrow from a lucky hollow or whenever he had allowed himself to drop his guard.

His right elbow was circled by a large black line, a permanent burn gifted to him by the wardens in the Irithyll Dungeon.

His left arm from the wrist down had lost its human colour and was now a dark grey from an encounter with a basilisk, a side effect of being turned to stone.

The soles of his feet were marked with the numerous spike traps he'd been pushed into, and his ankles were imprinted with hands from the undead that had dragged him to some of his deaths.

Around his neck, teeth marks could be seen from an extremely close encounter with a mimic. The monster in disguise had taken pleasure in sinking its teeth into his neck, so much so that it had ripped his head off.

In the middle of his stomach, three marks were easily discernible.

The one to his left was the smallest of the three, even his hand could cover it. The wound had been made when the Dancer had thrust her dark blade into his stomach. The abyssal effect had spread into a small black patch over his skin, devoid of all colour.

The wound on the right was the largest, left to him by his fight with the Nameless King. The swordspear had easily torn through his armour, piercing through the unkindled and leaving the scar which spread out in a lightning shaped pattern.

In the very centre of his stomach, this wound was the roundest. The Firelink Greatsword had left the most painful wound of all. In his fight against the Soul of Cinder, the embodiment of fire had slammed him into the ground, driving the massive greatsword and pinning him to the ground to burn to death. The hole spread out, with the middle being an almost black patch of skin, and the edges a dark red burn.

So many wounds, all reminders of what he had gone through. No matter how many Estus flasks he chugged through, or how many miracles he prayed for, these marks would always remain.

The unkindled didn't mind. He would suffer through all the pain that his journey had thrown at him and more, to relight the flame one more.

Looking around the shrine, at all the people he had managed to save, he knew he had made the right choice.

* * *

 **A/N Another chapter for you guys, this one based on the various ways I died during my playthroughs. Also, if you readers have any suggestions or ideas for a chapter that you wanna throw my way, feel free to.**


	4. Warrior's weapons

Andre had smithed many weapons in his time.

For years, he hammered away in the shrine, offering his skills to the occasional unkindled that passed through.

None had stood out to Andre, none had asked quite as much as that unkindled had.

The weapons they had brought had to have been the strangest he had ever come upon. Mighty swords and hammers that looked impossible to wield for a regular person, some had barely fit within the blacksmith's abode. Claws that looked more befitting on a beast than a man. Flame, thunder, chaos, and dark were all woven into these weapons, no matter how heavy or sharp they may be.

Andre would never forget when he first met him.

When he first approached the blacksmith, barely covered in rags, caked in dirt, Andre had not thought much of the unkindled. He assumed that he would die in a few days, as most newcomers did.

"Could you fix this for me?" The unkindled had asked, presenting Andre with the Uchigatana. The smith took it with wide eyes, this lanky pile of bones had beaten the sword master?

"I suppose I could fix 'er up," Andre confessed, gently lowering the katana to his anvil.

Usually the unkindled ones would leave him as he worked on their weapons, apparently needing to do other things in the short time the master smith took to alter the blades.

Not this one though. Once Andre started smithing, he simply sat down in front of the smithy's cove, watching the master of craft work away.

"Got an interest in me work do ya boy?" Andre chuckled, still hammering away at the blade.

"I'd rather keep my eye on it," the unkindled said, pointing to the Uchigatana, "I only recently got my hands on the blade, it would be a pity to lose it so soon."

"Aye that it would," Andre said, flipping the blade around to hammer the other side, "Weapons will always have your back, they can never betray ya. But you needn't worry about me taking this lovely one."

"And why's that?" the unkindled asked.

"Because even though I can forge 'em into bloody strong tools, I can't handle one for the life of me." Andre laughed, his grey beard swaying at the movement. The unkindled joined him after a moment, sharing in the joy.

"There ya go sunny, one freshly sharpened katana." Andre handed the unkindled the Uchigatana, observing as he took the handle and gave blade a few test swings.

Even back then, Andre could see it. This unkindled had something that the others lacked.

It wasn't skill, for while this unkindled had the makings of a warrior, he was by no means ready to face the Lords of Cinder, certainly not in those rags.

What he had was hope. The others, they had all been so downtrodden, brought down by the dark and deadly world around them, but this one looked past all that. This special unkindled hadn't lost that spark yet, and hopefully they never would.

It had been a long time since Andre had seen someone like that, someone who would be willing to fight against the insurmountable odds that the world would throw at them. That had been so long ago, in an age that most had long forgotten. The unkindled before him had the same drive that he had seen in those undead so long ago, in the Warrior of Sunlight and the knight that accompanied him through his journey.

With a smile, the old man went back to smithing away. Perhaps this time it would be different.

Perhaps, with his help, the unkindled could make a change, and bring the Lords of Cinder to their thrones.

* * *

 **A/N Thanks for all the reviews guys. There may not be an update for a while, one more exam to go so I'm going to be focusing on that and an upcoming uni application. Although this wasn't one of the suggestions I received, there is still a chance that I may use those ones in the future.**


	5. Spells, and the problems they present

Learning spells from the masters in Firelink Shrine was by no means an easy feat.

"No, hold your hand like this," the unkindled observed Cornyx, attempting to emulate the old pyromancer. Instead of the small flame of warmth that his master was holding, the unkindled managed to cause an explosion large enough to slam him into the opposite wall, landing on the ground with a groan

With a sigh, Cornyx stood from behind his belongings, helping his student to his feet.

"Perhaps one day you will be able to perform the great pyromancies you so desire," Cornyx councled the unkindled, patting him on the back, "but I do not think today is that day. You would more likely be better off asking Orbeck to assist you with your sorceries."

"But maybe I could-"

"My pupil, I believe it would be best to avoid setting the entire shrine alight, at least until we can have Andre ready with a way to put out your flames." Cornyx said.

* * *

Orbeck's training yielded similar results.

"No! Don't hold it like that you…" Whatever the sorcerer was going to say was cut off as the unkindled managed to fire a soul arrow himself, having held his staff the wrong way.

The scholar shook his head, "How you manage to wield weapons with such grace, yet can't handle the simplest of staffs is beyond me."

"My apologies, master." The unkindled bowed his head, placing the staff back on Orbeck's desk, "at least the staff is still intact this time."

"Yes, a small step up, but still progress none the less. Perhaps you would find your time better spent elsewhere." Orbeck returned to searching through his books, "Perhaps someone else will be able to occupy your time."

* * *

Karla's teachings weren't much better.

"You're sure you want to try this again?" Karla asked.

"Yes, these abyssal spells may be what I need to overcome Prince Lothric," The unkindled answered.

"You remember what happened last time we tried this?" She continued.

"T-That won't happen again, I have more control of it now."

"Alright," she put her chime in front of her, her student copying her pose as they both faced the far wall, Gerirat scurrying out of the line of fire.

"Just follow as I do." Karla drew her arm back slowly, then thrusting it forward to expel a dark orb from the chime. The orb flew straight into the wall, smashing against the rock and dissipating.

She turned to watch her student. He too drew his arm back, albeit shakier than she had. With a cry, he thrust the chime out, with an orb lazily floating out of it.

"See, the darkness in you isn't nearly enough to hurt even those hollows on the High Wall." Karla resumed her position underneath the stairs, setting the staff aside for now, "That's not necessarily a bad thing though, it simply means you aren't cut out to harness the power within you."

"Sorry, Master." The unkindled said, leaving the child of the abyss to herself.

* * *

"And so, those who had claimed the great souls overthrew the dragons and claimed their titles as gods." Irina's fingers slid from the page, having finished reading the braille tome to the unkindled once more. She barely even needed the tomes anymore, she'd read the stories so many times.

"Do you wish to hear another tale, champion?" the miracle worker asked.

"No, I think that's enough for today." The unkindled said, brushing himself of the dirt that had covered the rear of his armour. "It would be best if I were to head out again. I'll be sure to bring back some tomes if I can."

"That would be wonderful," Irina replied, closing her unseeing eyes once more.

The unkindled made his way to the bonfire, opting to leave his staves, chimes, and pyromancy flames behind. Better to rely on old reliable steel.

* * *

 **A/N Yo, I'm back. Finished with my exams now so that means more time to write. I can't remember exactly what the prompt was, but I remember it along the lines of spells. It's also sort of based off how almost all of my first runs through dark souls are melee only.**

 **I should be updating this more and more as I go, but there are a few other things that may come up. With the holidays now started, DnD may be a little more regular for me and my friends, and lemme tell ya, writing characters for that is quite enjoyable. There are also a few crossovers that I have planned to continue working on soon. One of them is a dark souls crossover that I've never seen done before, which is cool.**

 **Cya round next chapter.**


	6. On blighted wings

Perched high atop the Ringed City, the dark dragon scanned the streets below in case another ashen one had entered the city. The last one had taken longer to kill then the darkeater would have liked, they seemed to be growing stronger each time.

Midir turned his gaze to Lady Fillianore's tower, tall and graceful as the day it was built. He still held another purpose besides destroying the foolish ashen ones; he must serve lady Filianore and keep the dark at bay.

Spreading his mighty wings, Midir leapt from the tower he was perched upon, cracking the stone with his legs as he pushed off. Within a few short flaps, he had delved far enough into the Ringed City that the hole was beneath him. None in the Ringed City knew how this hole came about, only that the abyss was strongest down there.

Folding his wings to his side, Midir swooped down into the hole, divebombing straight to the bottom. The darkness had spread more since he'd last arrived, the abyss was growing impatient. Midir searched for that _thing,_ knowing that it would be somewhere down here.

Finally his old eyes found their mark, the bright red against the black. With a roar, Midir landed before the orb of red, his eyes' slowly making out the rest of the figure.

It was deformed, as it always seemed to be whenever he came. The creature's body seemed to be blurred, as though it was one quivering pile. The head was adorned with two massive horns of bone, leading to back to the snarling creature's face. It seemed that only the large arm had formed, as the other was little more than a stump. It's legs too were barely formed, the creature relying on its arm to keep it upright.

"Manus…" Midir growled, feeling the fire in his belly wanting to turn this monster to ashes once more, "your efforts will be in vain once more."

Manus growled, swinging its stub of an arm towards Midir, simply attacking at air.

"Begone, abyssal one!" Midir commanded, spraying forth fire from his mouth. Manus shrieked, moving its arms to protect itself, but his attempts were futile, the flames of the dragon burned through his flesh with ease, setting his whole body alight.

Within a minute, the only trace left of the father of the abyss was the bright red orb that sat in his head. Walking over slowly, Midir scooped it up with his mouth, as he'd done many times. With a snarl, he crushed the orb between his teeth, grimacing as the abyss flowed through him.

How long had this cycle gone on? Midir wondered. Had it been years? Decades? Centuries? How long had it been since the princess had given him those orders, sealed him to this fate of battling with the abyss for as long as he lived.

With the source destroyed once again, the darkness faded to reveal the shimmering lake once more. Midir gazed upwards, knowing that more ashen ones were sure to come. All he wished was to rest, to break free of this cycle. He wouldn't though, this duty had been entrusted to him by those who raised him, it was his responsibility to keep back the dark, and keep back the dark he would.

Before taking flight once more, Midir felt a strange bubbling feeling in his stomach before he fell into a coughing fit. Flames flew from his mouth, but the dragon couldn't help but notice the dark streaks that tinged his fire. The Abyss was having an effect on him. For now it was only in his flames, but how long until it would corrupt the rest of him.

Shaking his head, Midir left those thoughts behind, he had a duty to serve, and thinking over these things would do him no good. Spreading his wings once more, the darkeater left the hole, spreading his wings and roaring when he reached the sky once again, announcing his presence to the denizens of the city.

Scanning the streets once more, he was greeted with a new figure this time. A humanoid dressed in unfamiliar armour was running from a pair of ringed knights, firing off arrows every so often.

Another unkindled, another corpse to litter the streets, Midir thought as he dived down, claws lunging forward and flame bursting from his mouth as the ashen one turned to the new source of danger, no time to scream before the darkeater was upon them.

* * *

 **A/N Wow it's been a long time since I've updated this story. A lot of stuff has been happening recently, and I was really lacking in motivation to go back to revisit the Dark Souls universe. But one train ride was all it took to get me back into this, and I quite liked the concept of Midir. Hope you guys enjoy this and look out for more stuff in the future.**


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